The Silent Sister(3)

I dropped my duffel bag on my bed, then walked into the fourth room—my father’s office. Daddy’s bulky old computer monitor rested on a small desk by the window, and glass-fronted curio cabinets filled with Zippo lighters and antique compasses lined two of the walls. My grandfather had been a collector, too, so Daddy’d inherited many of the items, then added to them by searching through Craigslist and eBay and flea markets. The collections had been his obsession. I knew the sliding glass doors to the cabinets were locked and hoped I’d be able to find where my father had squirreled away the keys.

Propped against the fourth wall of the room were five violin cases. Daddy hadn’t played, but he’d collected stringed instruments for as long as I could remember. One of the cases had an ID tag hanging from the handle, and I knelt next to it, lifting the tag in my hand. It had been a long time since I’d looked at that tag, but I knew what was on it: a drawing of a violet on one side and on the other side, my sister’s name—Lisa MacPherson—and our old Alexandria, Virginia, address. Lisa had never lived in this house.

* * *

My mother died shortly after I graduated from high school, so although I would never stop missing her, I was used to her being gone. It was strange to be in the house without Daddy, though. As I put my clothes in my dresser, I kept expecting him to walk into the room and I had trouble accepting the fact that it was impossible. I missed our weekly phone calls and knowing he was only a few hours away. He’d been so easy to talk to and I’d always felt his unconditional love. It was a terrible feeling to know that there wasn’t a soul in the world now who loved me that deeply.

He’d been a quiet man. Maybe one of the quietest people to ever walk the earth. He questioned rather than told. He’d ask me all about my own life, but rarely shared anything about his own. As a middle school counselor, I was the one always asking the questions and I’d enjoyed being asked for a change, knowing that the man doing the asking cared deeply about my answers. He was a loner, though. He’d died on the floor of the Food Lion after a massive heart attack. He’d been alone and that bothered me more than anything.

Bryan had suggested I have a memorial service for him, but I wouldn’t have known who to invite. If he had any friends, I didn’t know about them. Unlike most people in New Bern, my father hadn’t belonged to a church or any community organization, and I was certain my brother wouldn’t show up at a service for him. His relationship with our father had been very different from mine. I hadn’t even been able to find Danny when I got to New Bern after Daddy’s death. His cop friend Harry Washington told me he’d gone to Danny’s trailer to give him the news, and I guess Danny just took off. He’d left his car parked next to the trailer, and Bryan and I hiked through the forest looking for him, but Danny knew those woods better than anyone. He had his hiding places. Now, though, he had no idea I was in town, so this time I’d surprise him. I’d plead with him to help me with the house. I knew better than to hope he’d say yes.





2.



Danny had no phone, so there was no way to reach him other than to drive out to his trailer. He lived deep in the woods on the outskirts of my father’s RV park about ten miles from New Bern. As I turned onto the long narrow driveway leading into Mac’s RV Park, the woods hugged my car so tightly I wondered how motor homes ever made it down the road. I reached the lane that ran parallel to the creek. The park was down the gravel lane to the right, but I turned left onto a rutted dirt road that would take me to Danny’s trailer. I slowed way down, my teeth clacking against each other as my car bounced over the choppy peaks and valleys of the packed earth.

I came to the turnoff that led into the woods and made another left. The road here was barely more than a hiking trail. Someone would have to be looking for it to see it, and that was the way Danny liked it. Branches slapped against my windshield as I drove over rocks and tree roots. The few hundred feet to get to Danny’s trailer always felt like an eternity on this road.

I finally spotted a glint of metal through the trees and I steeled myself for what lay ahead. Which Danny would I meet today? The affectionate big brother whose smile masked his sadness, or the angry, bitter man who could scare me with his fury? Either way, I hated that I was a counselor but I couldn’t seem to help my own brother.

Driving forward again, I turned into the clearing. The trees formed an emerald-green cavern around the pine-needle-covered earth, and between Danny’s small, ancient Airstream, his old Subaru, and the hammock strung beneath two of the towering longleaf pines, there was barely enough room for me to park. I’d brought him a couple of bags of groceries and I looped them over my wrist as I got out of the car and walked toward the trailer.

Danny opened the door as I got closer.

“Hey, Danny.” I smiled brightly.

“Hey,” he said. “I wondered when you’d show up.” His expression was flat and hard to read, but there was a spark in his eyes that comforted me. He’d always been a good-looking guy and he still was, his messy collar-length hair a darker blond than it had been when we were kids and his pale blue eyes vivid against his tanned skin. He was too thin, his face all sharp angles and flat planes. I was glad, though, to see that his short beard was neatly trimmed. During the worst times, he let it grow long and scraggly. I’d come to see his beard as an indicator of how he was doing.